Chapter 21 – Some Nights

"You knew."

The flames that still burnt low in the fireplace lit the room with a soft glow, warming it in a way that seemed to accentuate Emma's rage towards Oliver. Towards Mycroft. Towards everything. Her hands were shaking violently, even more than usual, and her skin was icy cold. She couldn't believe her friend, one of her only friends, could do this. If he'd wanted money he could have just asked – she had a near never ending supply of it now – he didn't need to sell out his best friend to the newspapers. Emma stretched out her fingers before curling them into fists, listening to the joints crack. Her uncle hadn't even looked up from the paper.

"You knew that it was him and you didn't tell me?"

Mycroft turned the page of his broadsheet, now seemingly inspecting the sports section, his face blank. Emma cleared her throat,

"Mycroft."

There must have been something in her voice, because his eyes flicked up for a fraction of a second, before returning to the words on the page. He didn't appear to be reading, just staring in one spot. Emma had the sudden urge to rip the paper out of his hand and punch him in his smug face, before realising that Mycroft was probably far more adept in combat than she was, seeing as he was basically running the country, and she had spent the last 16 years of her life sitting on her arse.

She drew herself to her full height (not that five feet and six inches was particularly intimidating), and stretched out her fingers again so that they cracked.

"Do you really have to do that every few minutes?"

Mycroft didn't move his eyes from the spot on the page he was gazing at. He was trying far too hard to look like he didn't give a shit. Emma felt rage bubble in her stomach.

"Stop that." She said, her voice shaking; she was teetering on the edge, she could feel a breakdown bubbling up in her stomach, "Stop it, please."

Her uncle sighed and moved his gaze back up from the paper, folding it and placing it carefully on the table beside his chair. He joined his hands above his lap, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, and looked at Emma expectantly. His eyes held no emotion.

"Stop what?" He asked.

Nothing. He was giving her nothing. Emma's breath shook violently, along with the rest of her body.

"Stop –" She broke off. She didn't know how to end her sentence without it sounding ridiculous. She sighed, and buried her face in her hands for a moment, before looking up at Mycroft again, "Stop pretending you don't care."

For a brief moment, Emma could have sworn Mycroft looked taken aback, but the expression left his face so quick she couldn't be sure if it was even there in the first place. The bubbling rage in her stomach seemed to die down a little.

Slowly, Mycroft stood up and moved towards her, towering over Emma, making her feel like a child. He raised an eyebrow, stopping about a metre away from her,

"I've told you before, caring is not an advantage."

Any other day, that would have been the end of it. Emma would have gone back to her room and sat, trying not to ponder on it for too long, before reading until her mind went numb. But now she was angry, now she wanted someone else in this godforsaken house to feel something for once. She was sick of being the only sane one, even if she wasn't completely that.

Mycroft began to walk past her, out of the room, possibly to disappear for several days, as he often did. Emma wasn't satisfied, however.

"That's not how it works, Mycroft, you can't just switch off. You care about your brother, don't you?" The words were tumbling out of her mouth so fast she couldn't stop herself, "Just because you don't think it's an 'advantage' doesn't mean you don't do it. You can't just stop caring about people." She stopped and took a breath, before adding, "At least, I hope you can't."

Mycroft stopped in the doorway and turned back to Emma, who trembled a little. His head tilted to the side as he contemplated her for a moment, and when he spoke it was slow and calm,

"You're right, of course; there are people I care about," He looked almost uncomfortable as he spoke, "I care about my brother a great deal, and by extension, you."

Emma's eyes narrowed. He was pandering to her now, she wasn't stupid enough not to notice. Even so, it was calming to hear him say it. Her fingers stopped shaking so much.

"I didn't know for sure about the boy," Mycroft continued, not making eye contact, looking out to some point above Emma's head, "But I could tell that you did."

Emma frowned, "I didn't –" But she stopped herself.

The coat. The constant texts telling her not to buy the papers the next day. The guilty look.

She knew, she just didn't want to believe it.

It knocked her over the edge, and she felt something inside her break. Tears started spilling down her face in the most un-Holmes way possible, great sobs rattling her body. This was why Mycroft didn't care, the same reason Sherlock hadn't. She was too emotional. She was different to them, not a real Holmes at all. There was too much Stoneheart in her. That made her sob more.

All the while, Mycroft was watching her with an odd expression on his face like he didn't know how to deal with the situation, which he probably didn't. Emma forced herself to stop, taking long, tremoring breaths that seemed to last years. Wiping her eyes on the sleeves of her dark blue hoodie, she sniffed loudly, before looking up at her uncle.

All this time she had been trying to act older, wiser, than she was. She had been trying to be stronger than she was, but this was it. She was done. She wanted it over.

"I want to go home."

Her voice was small and scratchy, and she couldn't even look Mycroft in the eye when she said it. She felt so ashamed to say something so childish, and something she knew was impossible.

"I want to go back; I take it all back I wish I'd never come here." Emma let the rage go, and the panic, and the sadness. There was nothing left inside her. She was exhausted, "I just want all this shit to be over."

She looked down at the carpet, her arms wrapping around her middle and grasping at the fabric that hung off of her body. God, she was getting skinny.

It was so quiet that Emma thought that Mycroft had left, probably ashamed of her for having a moment of weakness. For caring too much. For… something. Emma had lost count of all the possible ways she could have disappointed him by now.

"I'm removing you from your school," Emma's head snapped up as Mycroft spoke. He was stood a little closer now, and his face wasn't as sharp, though it still looked stern, "You will be taught by a private tutor in Kent from now on. I expect your things packed to leave tomorrow morning." He turned and left.

Emma stood in the room for a few moments, the dying embers of the fire in the grate barely giving out any light anymore. Somewhere upstairs, the old grandfather clock chimed midnight.

She sighed and let her arms drop from around her middle, still frustrated at herself for showing weakness in front of Mycroft. He was sending her away now – clearly he couldn't deal with how emotional she was. She wanted to yell at him, ask him how else she was supposed to act. She was a teenager, wasn't she? Wasn't she supposed to be emotional beyond all reason?

She dragged herself back upstairs to her room and sat on her bed, staring at the carpet. How long she was there she didn't know, time didn't seem like a real, tangible thing at that moment. After what felt like an age, but realistically could have been five minutes, she hopped off of her bed, walked over to her hi-fi and pressed play on her iPod, which now lived permanently in the docking station.

'Well, some nights I wish that this all would end / 'cause I could use some friends for a change'

Her suitcase from the Scotland trip was sitting under her bed, its lid gaping open revealing its sickeningly empty body. It was the same suitcase she had brought down to London when she ran away. She collapsed down onto the floor, sitting with her back against the chest of drawers opposite her bed, and kicked it.

He wanted her gone. Her own uncle was kicking her out.

Why did no one love her like she wanted them to?

She started scratching the back of her hand again, trying to distract herself from her mind, which was replaying Mycroft's lying words: 'I care about my brother a great deal, and by extension, you.'

Emma stopped, her eyebrows knitting together as she realised what he had said.

"'I care about my brother'," Emma muttered under her breath, "care. Present tense."

Emma pulled out her suitcase and ran over to her bookshelf, practically ripping the copy of The Invisible Man from between The Time Machine and The War of the Worlds, and throwing it into the bottom of the case.

"You ready to go?" James, Emma's driver, asked, as he picked up her suitcase from next to where she sat on the bottommost step of the staircase. She shrugged at him,

"I guess."

She hauled herself off of the floor and followed him out to the car, ready to endure several hours sat in the back of a blacked out car. She was prepared, she had gotten up at 6am to make a playlist.

"Mr and Mrs Holmes seemed very excited to meet you," James commented, as Emma watched him pop open the boot and lay her suitcase in it, "Said that your uncle had told them a lot about you."

Emma shot him a look, and inclined her head, "What?"

"Did your uncle not tell you where you're going?" James closed the car boot.

"Uh, no, not really." Emma admitted, shoving her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie. Mr and Mrs Holmes… as in her grandparents?

"He told me to take you down to his mum and dad's, said you needed to be around – and this is a direct quote so don't think I'm speaking out of line – 'normal people'." James made air quotes with his fingers around the last two words and laughed, "Hopefully being away from this place'll make you feel better, kid."

Emma found herself nodding, "Yeah, hopefully," she said as he opened the back door of the car for her to slip in, "Cheers," she thanked him and he shook his head,

"Just doing my job."

He didn't seem to realise that Emma hadn't been thanking him for opening the door, or even for driving her to Kent. Mycroft was sending her away to be with a family. People who had the capacity to be open about their feelings and look after her, instead of just watching her. She smiled to herself as she realised that maybe he hadn't been lying to her at all. Maybe he did care.

She put her earphones in and rested her head against the window, watching the crash barriers rise and fall out of the ground at the sides of the road until they eventually disappeared. They were travelling almost exclusively down single-lane country paths now, overgrown greenery spilling onto the road on either side, the light cast across the back seat of the car dappled by the leaves.

Emma closed her eyes to it, focusing on the music in her ears, letting it fill her and expel any anxiety she felt about meeting her grandparents. In any other situation she would have been scared, but now she realised why she was going all she could feel was a low bubble of excitement.

Her playlist ended just as they pulled into a small village, and Emma pulled out her earphones and leaned forward, resting a hand on the seat in front,

"Are we here?"

James nodded, not turning to face her, "Should just be coming up on the left."

They were driving up a row of old-fashioned terraced houses, red brick and square looking, each with a neatly tended, fenced off garden out the front. Emma could hardly believe this was where Sherlock and Mycroft had grown up, it looked far too normal for them. Then again, Emma could hardly imagine either of them as children. The car stopped in front of one of the houses, plain and unassuming amongst the rest of the row. Two people were stood by one of the windows, looking out as if they were waiting – Emma then noted that they definitely were – they were waiting for her.

James opened the door for her and she stepped out, pulling down the bottom of her hoodie to attempt to make herself look more presentable, not that she imagined it worked. She pushed her sleeves up to her elbows and stood and watched as James took the suitcase out of the boot. A white-haired man with a kind face was bustling up the path towards them, followed more slowly by a woman. The man opened the gate and stepped towards them, a beaming smile on his face,

"Hello!" Emma was rather taken aback by how cheerful he seemed, she was expecting something a bit more Mycroft-y, "You must be Emma, I'm Gregory. Our Mike has told us plenty about you,"

Once again, Emma was shocked by the fact that Mycroft had spoken about her to people. He actually thought about her when she wasn't around? Somehow this surprised her.

"Whatever he said, he was lying," Emma grinned at him, and she found herself believing her own smile for the first time in a while. This felt familiar. This felt good.

"I'm sure he was," He gave a hearty chuckle, and Emma found herself joining him, "Now," Mr Holmes started, turning to James, who was holding Emma's suitcase and looking around absently, "You hand me that, young man, would you like to come in for some tea?"

James handed over the suitcase, but stood his ground, "Sorry, Mr Holmes, I have instructions to return the car as soon as possible," He inclined his head towards the vehicle, "'S worth a lot, can't be left at the side of the road unattended, you know." He shrugged, as if he didn't really know, and was simply recalling what he had been told. Emma expected he was. James turned to her, "Ring me if you need me to pick you up, not that I think you will, of course."

Emma nodded at him, "Yeah, sure," She smiled, "Thank you, have a good trip back."

The driver raised his eyebrows and laughed, "See, being here is already cheering you up," He moved over to the driver's side door and opened it, "I'll see you later, Emma," Then, tipping his hat, "Mr Holmes."

"Goodbye, safe trip!" Mr Holmes waved as James shut the door and pulled away.

The street emptied and then it was just Emma stood out in the road, the crisp spring air blowing her hair about her face, with Mr Holmes stood by the gate, and Mrs Holmes hanging back on the garden path.

Mrs Holmes made tea just right.

Emma sipped contentedly as she skimmed the pages of Lydia Holmes' 'The Dynamics of Combustion', curled up on the sofa with her back to the arm. The book was far too advanced for her, but she understood most of it, and only needed to ask the author, who was sitting across from her in an armchair, if she got stuck. Pages 156 to 300 had been her homework for the weekend, something that would have been a ridiculous ask in any other learning environment – in the Holmes family it almost seemed tame.

She had been living with her grandparents for almost three weeks, and already she was starting to feel better. The absence of reliable phone signal in the British countryside was ensuring that any unwanted texts from Oliver were being prevented, and the nearest corner shop was a half hour's walk away, meaning she could avoid passing any unpleasant headlines speculating her or her father's credibility on her morning run.

It was her grandfather who had suggested she take up some form of exercise, after he had noticed her hands shaking violently one dinnertime. So far it had been working to decrease her anxiety levels, and her hands were now steady the majority of the time, not that she wasn't still constantly looking over her shoulder in case she saw Jim again, lurking in the shadows as she jogged. She still hadn't told anyone but Oliver about her 'hallucination' in Glasgow – she still wasn't even sure it wasn't real. Emma could still see him so clearly in her mind, as if it had only happened the day before, not over a month ago.

She shook her head, and closed her book, making a mental note of the page number before setting it down on the coffee table. It was May, and there was no longer any need for the fire to be lit, but rain pattered down on the windows softly ensuring they were not enveloped in silence. Emma took another sip of tea, before setting it down on the table next to her book and looking up at Mrs Holmes, who was flicking through a recipe book, but seemed not to be paying attention to what was on the pages.

Something had been bothering Emma ever since her father had been buried. Why hadn't his parents been at the funeral? There had been plenty of notice, surely they should have come? Emma so desperately felt the need to ask, but she never found a place for it to come up in conversation. How do you go about the subject of someone's child's death without being insensitive? Emma thanked her Holmes genes for her inability to understand other people's emotions – all evidence pointed to them being the source. Sherlock's parent's seemed to dote upon their sons, so why on earth did they not attend his funeral?

"What's on your mind?" Emma's grandmother asked her, her smile warm and inviting. Emma was suddenly overwhelmed with guilt – how could she ask her something so insensitive? Emma's grandparents had been nothing but loving since her arrival, and that was not the way she wanted to repay them.

"Ah," Emma paused, trying to think of something believable to say, "I was just wondering… How long am I going to be staying here?" It was a genuine question – Mycroft had never said. In fact, he hadn't contacted her since she left, however, Mrs Holmes had ensured her that 'Mike' had been asking after her. Emma wasn't entirely sure how much truth there was in those statements, but she appreciated them all the same.

Mrs Holmes looked rather shocked for a second, then chuckled, "Did Mike not tell you? He does always like to be cryptic," She had placed her book down on the sofa next to her and joined her hands in her lap, "You are to complete your studying towards your GCSEs here, and you can take the papers at the local school. After that, it's up to you as to whether you want to stay here or go home."

Home. Emma had never thought of Mycroft's house as a home, yet now… Sometimes she did find herself yearning for the familiar warmth of the drawing room in the evenings.

She nodded slowly, going over what Lydia had said in her head once more – that meant she would be here for another month at least, and then she was free to go back to her uncle's if she chose. Emma still wasn't sure if she would choose to go 'home', it was certainly more welcoming here, and felt far more isolated, which made Emma feel safe. She remembered a time when the bustling of streets and passing cars had calmed her – now they just made her feel anxious. While it was quieter at Mycroft's than Sherlock's, their parents' house was even more far out.

There was no way that Jim would be able to find her somewhere like this.

Emma's exams came and went in a blur – she didn't find them particularly challenging, nor particularly easy, they just happened. The other kids at the local school hadn't looked twice at her, though there was no reason for them to now. The buzz around her had died down since she had left London; there were no photographers taking candid photographs whenever she ventured into the city (because she wasn't going there), and it seemed that Oliver had finally stopped feeding the press information about her (because she was no longer giving it to him). The last month hadn't dragged, it had gone just as days used to before everything happened. Struggling through the week and lazing away the weekends; that was how it always went. Years could go by and it would feel like a week.

Mycroft had visited once – sitting down for tea with his mother as if he did this regularly. Emma considered that he might, but then wiped the idea from her mind – the thought of Mycroft being family orientated in any way baffled her. He didn't speak much to her when his parents were in the room, and only when they left did he actually make eye contact.

"How are you feeling?" He had asked, moving his teacup up to his lips as he spoke. He looked more like he was conducting a job interview than speaking to his niece. Emma frowned at him,

"Better," She paused, "I think, anyway, it's hard to tell."

Emma leaned forwards and scooped her mug off of the coffee table which sat in front of them. Emma wasn't sure if she had ever sat in such close proximity to her uncle – they were sharing the sofa. It made her feel odd, Mycroft really didn't fit in with this type of environment. She took a swig of tea and then looked at him expectantly.

Mycroft placed his teacup back on the saucer in his left hand. Emma wondered why he didn't just use a mug like a normal person.

"I assume your grandmother told you that you're free to stay here as long as you like?" He asked, raising an enquiring eyebrow. Emma nodded,

"Yeah, she said I had to stay for my exams but then I could go home whenever I wanted."

Mycroft nodded slowly, before turning away from Emma to place his cup and saucer back on the table. He didn't turn back to look at her when he spoke, "Home?" His voice was enquiring.

Emma felt something in her stomach twist. Since Mrs Holmes had referred to Mycroft's estate as such she had started to miss it more; realising that maybe she had felt comfortable there. Her room had become some sort of safe haven, and the dark drawing room with its warm fireplace was often a place she retreated to in her mind when she became anxious, but she hadn't meant for Mycroft to find that out. He looked quietly surprised, and Emma cringed inwardly. She hated showing emotion in front of Mycroft.

"Uh, yeah," She stumbled over the words, trying disastrously to make them seem nonchalant, "You know… It's more comfortable than 221B and more inviting than my mum's house so –" She stopped and shrugged, taking a long, drawn out gulp of tea to cover up her train wreck of a cover up. Mycroft said nothing for a few seconds, only raised his eyebrows.

"Well… Feel free to -" He paused and frowned, before turning his head to make eye contact with Emma once more, "- come home whenever you feel you need to,"

Emma wanted to laugh – she had confused Mycroft. This was ridiculous. Mycroft Holmes, self-proclaimed genius, was confused. Emma raised her mug in front of her lips to cover up the involuntary smile that snaked up her mouth.

Mycroft had left fairly quickly after that, saying that he had urgent business to attend to back at the office in a way that everyone but Mr Holmes could tell was a lie. He had patted Emma on the shoulder, and Emma wasn't sure if he was just doing it in front of his parents to keep up some sort of 'supportive family' façade, or if it was a response to what she had said while they were having tea. Emma secretly hoped for the latter, but her head was telling her it was the former.

She shook her head, and pulled herself out of her daydream, opening her eyes to find herself sat on the sofa in the Holmes family living room, the same sofa she and Mycroft had sat on a few weeks ago, the last time that she had seen him. Emma was holding a copy of American Gods open in her lap and staring blankly at it, while Mr Holmes watched the television from the armchair across from her. The narration of the documentary had served as some sort of white noise, and Emma must have zoned out. She snapped the book shut and stood up, stretching.

"Are you going to bed so early, Em?" Mr Holmes looked up at her curiously, "After all, it's the first day of your summer holidays." He shot her a cheeky smile that made Emma chuckle, but she shook her head.

"The rest of my life is a summer holiday, grandad," She brought a hand up and brushed her hair out of her eyes, "Anyway, I think I'm going to go for a run, not to bed."

Mr Holmes nodded, and his eyes moved back to the television screen, "Make sure you're back in before it's dark, and let your grandmother know you're going out."

Emma gave him a mock salute before going upstairs to her room to change. Despite how long she had been living there, she was still using her suitcase as a pseudo-wardrobe, throwing dirty clothes in one side and folding the clean into the other. She fished out her jogging leggings and changed into them, pulling on a hoodie and grabbing her water bottle and iPod from on top of the chest of drawers along the far wall.

"I'm just going for a run," Emma said, peeking her head around her grandmother's office door, where she was sat reading a large volume that appeared to be about imaginary numbers. Lydia nodded wordlessly, so Emma took that as approval, and she set off out of the house, checking the time on her phone before setting off her running playlist and heading off down the street.

The sky was a dark pink, and her shadow stretched out far behind her as her trainers pounded against the tarmac, the heavy, warm air making it difficult for Emma to breathe as she went. She took a swig of water and turned out of the road, heading into the main village, her shadow now running alongside her.

She jogged for half an hour until she had done two circuits of the village, then paused by the war memorial in the square, doubling over, a hand on the marble, taking deep breaths. Her playlist always ran out precisely when she arrived, and she pulled out her earphones and stuffed them into the front pocket of her hoodie along with her iPod, before downing the final dregs of her water bottle. The sun was just setting over the horizon, and the sky was mostly dark, a blaze of fire dancing across the low cloud at the treeline in the distance. The square was deserted, and the silence was comforting. No one was ever around here after 8pm, unless they were in the pub, and that was how Emma liked it. She found other people's eyes on her caused her anxiety to flare up. She was always wondering who they were, if they knew who she was, or what they were looking at. The quiet of village life suited her. She felt safe here.

Emma straightened up, her hand still on the marble of the memorial, but no longer leaning so heavily upon it. Her legs felt like jelly. She shook them, and bounced up and down on the balls of her feet a few times to get the feeling back, before rolling her shoulders. She was about to head back to the house when she heard footsteps behind her.

Something inside her froze instantly, before she shook her head. It was probably just the old man who lived on the corner coming over to make sure she wasn't writing obscenities on the war memorial. She took a deep breath to steady her heart, which had quickened its beating the moment she heard someone behind her, before painting a smile onto her face and turning to face whoever it was.

The smile dropped.

He was stood by one of the trees on the edge of the square, looking just as perfectly maintained as the foliage, his suit impeccable, his hair slicked back. He was staring at her – just staring – in the gloom.

She turned and ran away from Jim Moriarty, her water bottle slipping through her fingers and shattering on the pavement behind her.

Emma couldn't look back; her eyes were so full of tears she could barely see where she was going anyway. She was stumbling, her legs hardly able to keep her up anymore. She fumbled with the latch on the gate at the end of the garden, catching her finger in the metal, making it bleed. She didn't flinch, she had no time to react.

He had found her.

How did he always find her?

The door slammed behind her as she reached the house, and she turned to lock it before running through the living room to the staircase, then shutting her bedroom door and sitting with her back against it so it couldn't be opened.

"Emma?"

It was her grandmother, speaking through the door, her voice full of concern,

"Emma, are you alright?"

She didn't know if she was. She couldn't breathe. She wasn't safe here anymore. She wanted to go back to Mycroft.

Emma looked down at her hands, which were shaking so violently for the first time in months. Her breaths were irregular and heavy. She picked herself up off of the floor and turned to face the door, speaking, as Mrs Homes had, through it to the person on the other side.

"I want to go home."